Unnecessary, and not very diverting, musings

Am I ever going to blog again?

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 10:02:00 +0000

Doubtful. It's hard for me to even write this blog post...the urge to put things down and share them is totally gone. I write them in my head and they never go anywhere. I can barely write emails. Sorry, folks. I'm told it will come back though.
I'm doing OK by the way.

Rudderless

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Sat, 21 Mar 2009 14:37:00 +0000

So I’ve been unemployed for 21 days now. They’ve gone by really quickly, what with a trip to Sinai, a visit from Joy, planning a birthday party complete with treasure hunt, and intensive sitting around and TV watching. Every day I look for a job, and it’s not going well. I feel like I need advice, because a7a neikness is taking place. What I’m basically doing is pursuing three separate tracks:

1) Finding some kind of non-profit, human rights type job here in Egypt. In other words, a vaguely legal non-corporate commercial job. Local NGOs and organizations offer a pittance and I want nothing to do with anything that’s not organized at the highest level of competency. So, not most of those. Also, not being a member of the Egyptian bar has proved unhelpful. But none of the jobs are good enough for me to consider that arduous road. So unless I can find a job with an international organization (I do have an interview with the UNHCR, which I hear is in a state of considerable disarray with employees quitting in droves) I’m going to have to give up on this one.

2) Finding a job abroad. This is obviously huge. I’m seeing lots of great jobs advertised, particularly in the United States. Working in human rights abroad definitely seems to require bar membership, especially in the U.S. Is this a good time, however, to plan what would be a grand scale life move? It would involve taking the NY or Massachusetts bars at considerable expense, sorting out work visas and the like, and basically moving there. Sounds OK actually – I guess I’ve done the expected two years here and now experience the predicted longing to get the hell out. But what kind of job would be so awesome that I would be OK living there without friends (except for the ever delightful Droodle, the best American I’ve ever been friends with)? Alternatively, I could look into short-term fellowships and such. That would be cool, but seem very hard to find.

3) Recognizing that with the western economies in the shitter I might as well stay here, with loved ones and good weather, and take a corporate law job. Hey, the experience is always in demand, the money’s good, it’s easy, and I can revisit abroad-moving in another year or so (or however long it takes for them to put the world back together).

It’s gonna have to be option 3, isn’t it? At any rate I’m going to Kuwait for a couple weeks soon and I’ll be able to think about things (soberly) there and not do a damn thing for myself.

Done

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Thu, 12 Feb 2009 10:27:00 +0000

Shortly after I got back from my vacation in Kuwait, I was tipsily sitting around with all my friends and I was happy. I said to them (it must have been apropos of something, I'm not one to burst into unsolicited introspection): "This is exactly how I hoped my life would be at 26."

"Really?" said Spaz in puzzlement.

I thought. "Well, except for the job of course."

So I quit. This is my last magazine issue. The thought is as a sweet morsel I roll under my tongue. I hope never to open another magazine again, although I hope to one day regain my pleasure in writing. Yes, I know it was an act of supreme foolhardiness to quit any job in this economy (as even my gynecologist felt the need to tell me at what I thought was a particularly inappropriate and rather painful point of my check up. No one should hear career advice issuing from their loin region.) I am well aware that I am a spoiled and privileged miss who doesn't have the will power to make the best of her opportunities. But I just couldn't do it anymore, and I'm pretty sure I'll find another job. Something legal. Let me know if you hear of anything.

By the way, don't you believe this post, the column: I'm nowhere near as despondent as all that, and at least three of my friends are actually moving back to Egypt. It was just a gimmick.

25 things you probably know about me because I talk about myself a lot

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 13:23:00 +0000

Sorry to regurgitate facebook content, people.

1. I can't ride a bike or drive a car. I don't believe in two wheeled vehicles and I am terrified of driving.
2. I've never seen a single James Bond or Indiana Jones movie.
3. I don't like Pink Floyd or U2 and I'm not ashamed.
4. I enjoy crocheting. I used to make hats and scarves for myself.
5. I know a surprising amount about Regency society in England from reading romance novels.
6. I hate baldness but love really short buzz cuts. The voluntary nature is key.
7. The amount of unmitigated joy that 30 rock gives me actually makes me worry about the state of my brain.
8. My ideal job would be a criminal defense or tort lawyer in a warm place that has common law. It would be even better to effectively work in women's rights here but I am too lazy to put in the work to learn enough Arabic, enroll in university, become accredited and then struggle with the stagnant legal system.
9. When things are happening, I write blog posts in my head about them a lot.
10. My favourite alcohol is vodka.
11. Ever since my decades long "psychological" constipation ceased, I haven't quite worked out how to poop like a normal human. I can't figure out when it's ready, or when I'm done, and such.
12. I actually remember taking my first step. No one believes me but I do!
13. I don't respect people who like Paulo Coelho.
14. I could never date a vegetarian.
15. Teal is my favourite colour (right now).
16. On my way to work (when that's happening) I always listen to Bob Dylan's "Tambourine Man" and Sam Roberts' "This wreck of a life". I sing along quietly.
17. I've never really liked my name but I guess it's a lot better than others. At least everyone can say it and it's religiously ambiguous.
18. I don't like dogs. I don't understand how people see no problem with doing things for their pets that they wouldn't do for family members.
19. When I'm cutting up onions, I pretend that I'm really crying because a super sad thing has happened and say appropriate lines while sniffling and wiping tears away. "She was so young!"
20. I'd rather have good friends than a good boyfriend, but I still have a hos before bros policy.
21. I am relatively terrified of children but I guess I'll have some just because I can. I'm sure after a while it'll seem like I need to make people, not just poos, with my body.
22. I still use msn messenger, chiefly to chat to my parents.
23. I'm not afraid of reptiles or insects in any special way (i.e. only the vast and poisonous ones).
24. I love doctors and hospitals. They can fix things.
25. I'm pretty level-headed in emergencies.

Phew. I'll do anything to avoid working, innit.

Things fall apart

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 13:05:00 +0000

I recently borrowed some "Friends" DVDs from a male friend, who was in disbelief for a few seconds that I was actually asking to borrow them and not ridiculing him. I immediately started watching them back to back, as is my wont, and it struck me: now that I'm 25, I realize my life actually appears to echo that on "Friends". My job's a joke (aren't they all in this economy), I'm broke, and my love life's D.O.A. (apparently this means "dead on arrival", which is a bit harsh). This was gladdening to me, as I'd always heard of the impossibility of having a group of such good-looking and supportive friends who seem to have limitless time to hang out in their fortuitously adjacent apartments and coffee shops in the middle of a weekday. I had kind of hoped that by now my life would have been more like Biggie's in "Big Poppa", but "Friends" will have to do.

Of course, neither I or my friends are as insanely thin and good-looking, as they all were when the series began and the actors were all crisp and coked out, but I'm sure that they would be fat too if they got everything, particularly junk food, delivered to them at home. It's true that my hair is currently going through a period of desperate awkwardness, much as theirs often did in the mid 90s, as I unwisely consented to having some pretty stark layers put in, making me look exactly like a Christmas tree. While this is a festive and seasonal look for a conifer, it leaves something to be desired on a girl. Also, I do in fact know some adults who are employed yet mysteriously can be found at home and friends' apartments during the daytime. The boys are messy, the girls are responsible and feed the boys, and everyone ridicules each other all the time.

Of course, neither I nor anyone I care about would choose to habitually go to a mere café – places with neither alcohol nor shisha are, in my firm opinion, only for teenagers or trendy yet religious people. How were the Friends not all bouncing off the walls drinking the vast vessels of coffee they never tired of?

However, my lifestyle of constant sitting around with friends joking and having fun is gradually coming to an end as they all fade away, in the time-honoured fashion of every young Egyptian who can, to jobs or grad schools abroad. Naturally on "Friends" that didn't really happen until they had to wrap the show up, because otherwise who would leave New York? Egypt, though, has seen a rough year of economic hardship, infrastructure failure, and violent crime, and shows no signs of immediate improvement. It hasn't been our day, our week, our month, or even our year, and soon we won't be there for each other either.

Alter Ego, January 2009

Day 7: Sixteen years old

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 05:27:00 +0000

It would be nice to sleep during the night. Ever since I took this job, to which I roll in at 1 pm at the earliest, I have inhabited a different night-time world, chiefly distinguished by its different inhabitants: insomniacs, the unemployed, freelancers. I now have friendships that I pursue exclusively from 1 to 4 am. I am woken by the shouts and clicks of the makwagi under my apartment and his homies, the details of whose lives I am now privy to.
But that’s Cairo…what I meant to say is, it’s continued here. It’s 7:46 am now and I’ve only had an hour of sleep. I spent the night watching tragic episodes of Private Practice, doing the odd spot of work, chatting to people in slightly different time zones, snapping at my parents when they got up to go to work (questions should not be posed before mid-day), and reading John Updike. What a great last name for a lesbian to have.
Yesterday I was woken by a phone call: an American female voice said that my apartment in Cairo had exploded, killing the bawab, of whom she knew I was very fond. I tried to shake myself awake and ask, who, when? when she announced that it was a joke. It was my friend Joy. That is the true extent of my gullibility. I set this at my mother’s door: when I repeated the story to her she looked stressed and asked why someone would play a nasty trick like that.
We met up and had a surreally adolescent evening. My dad drove me to her place and she greeted him in the proper demure Arab girl manner. I met her dad and greeted him the proper demure Arab girl manner. Then we went off into her white-duveted room to giggle and whisper on her bed about boys and look at clothes. Her dad drove us to the mall for a surreptitious shisha. The mall was having a Kuwaiti culture and awareness display, which featured a man dressed as a huge drop of water and another as a red lightning bolt. I thought the lightning bolt was a comma at first and was pleased. A person-sized comma strikes me as a good thing.
Afterwards we went out to dinner with her father, who spoke to us seriously about our career prospects. Four degrees between us and we still felt like frivolous directionless schoolgirls. Back at her house her dad pointed to the TV and said with enthusiasm, “This is a documentary about the history of math. It’s very interesting!” I turned to Joy in panic to find my expression reflected in her face. “30 rock?” she said. We arose with alacrity. I had brought my hard drive anticipating such a situation. We retreated back into her room. Later on her dad drove me home at 10:30 pm.
Mind blowing. Our normal lives are light years removed from any of this, both being partial to various sketchinesses. We didn't even know each other as teenagers. We should thank God, though, that we have these guises to escape into every once in a while.

Days 4-6: A bunch of crap

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 18:57:00 +0000

Went right off daily blogging suddenly, and now I’ve forgotten a lot of notes I made in my head. My short term memory is generally shot. I should start carrying a notebook around like a journalist or something. Let’s see: shopping copiously accompanied by two friendly African American ladies who giggled and said “Hah” and “bah” to me at every store, and “Ah caint believe I have to buy bluejeans in Kuwait!” Before that I forced my dad to try Indian food, perhaps for the first time. His general policy regarding food is: if a dish is not to be found in his mother’s largely se3eedi kitchen, he will not even try it. We had a very serious conversation about how disappointed he is that I like sushi. He liked some of the Indian food though.
Yesterday morning my dad spent at least an hour trying to wake me up in the morning in a manner grossly reminiscent of my days at school. This involves him standing patiently at the foot of the bed and talking endlessly about things he knows I will feel compelled to respond to. When I do he says, “OK, you’re awake now, yalla,” and then usually I am, dammit. He has also been known to tickle my feet despite frequent warnings that one day I will just involuntarily kick him in the face despite his revered parental status.
But not this time. Ten years later, I have cottoned on to the converse-her-awake method and remained resolutely silent. The only thing that finally got me up was the thought that since my dad had taken the day off work to take me to the doctor it would be selfish of me to not go. So off we went to the ophthalmologist’s.
The eye hospital is in Ahmadi. It was stuffed with Bedouins and police officers, who my dad explained had to be treated at this hospital because the police hospital doesn’t have ophthalmology. Can’t explain the Bedouins though. It says everything about how supportive my parents usually are when my dad praised me for being smart enough to go to the lobby and get myself a cup of coffee…all by myself. I apparently have perfect corneas, so I’m going to get laser eye surgery when I get back to Cairo, which terrifies the shit out of me. The idea of having my cornea peeled back and burned off while I’m awake! Anticipating my pussying out of this for a few months, my dad and I went afterwards to buy me some contact lenses (as you can see I am profiting massively from this vacation). After we bought them, the guy at the store told us that we could come by every week and he’d give us a free sample pair if we liked. We smiled and thanked him and my dad asked his name. “Remone,” he said with a sly smile. “Ah!” my dad said. “Kol sana wenta tayeb.” I can’t be quite sure, but I think the dude said something like, “Ah, 3ashan keda.” He definitely said something that established a direct line of Coptic causation for this courteous treatment. My dad wears gold jewellery, you see. I wore glasses and no makeup and have a carefully ambiguous name. It's obvious I guess.
As we walked out I made a little speech to my dad about how I wouldn’t accept freebies offered under such pretexts as a matter of principle. My dad replied that being that way was what caused some people not to like me.

Day 3 Part II: Special K

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 01:44:00 +0000

This vacation is spiralling downhill. Today I spent the evening with my worryingly apathetic and depressed friend the Source, who the financial crisis fucked and who I can’t help. Where the hell are the personal bankruptcy laws of this country? Can someone direct me to them online? Because it sure kills a vacation to worry about a friend in a debtor’s prison.
We met up with a Kuwaiti friend of mine from high school and his two foreign friends. Conversation was strangely stilted. We sat around in one of the foreign friends’ apartments, with me wondering: what do people sit around and do here, without drink or drugs? Well, I only had to wait. Soon enough I realized that at least one of those people was off his face. Ketamine. Nice one, I thought. We took his high ass home and left the other two K heads to their own devices. Well, maybe if I lived here I’d take horse tranquilizer too.
Actually they were all quite pleasant, twitchiness notwithstanding. I finally found someone else who suffers from restless legs syndrome and who gave testimony to support my own, how it keeps us up at night and shit. People – usually men – prefer not to believe that I have that but rather prefer to think that I am nervous around them. They can suck it.
When I got home I had a long and baffling talk (or rather, shout) with my dad based on the mad ideas, not previously indicated as being important, that I should stay in Egypt because it is my country and because the prospect of meeting a husband there is better. Like I care about “my country” anymore. And like there are any Christian guys left in Egypt…the good ones took off long ago. I have only ever fancied guys who did so, anyway. According to him, also, I may not enjoy working abroad. It was all very nonsensical, and so our shouting woke my mom up. When she couldn’t get back to sleep we had another chat about evil spirits - tonight's topic was the spirit of lust, which she believes to have far more application than I do. I talked her out of all that though…it took like an hour. Then we talked about what we could do about my desperately unfortunate haircut and metres of dark brown roots. I considered this to be a good culmination to the day and went back to hide out in my sane room.
Witticism, where art thou? Probably thou art in thy bed. It is 4:40 am.

Day 3: Regression

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 13:32:00 +0000

Day 3 isn't nearly over yet but so far it's started off with a bang: me slamming my bedroom door in anger when my mother asked me who I've been hanging out with in the past year that I've gotten so impatient and aggressive. According to my mother, I used to be gentle. This is patently false: the only person I am ever gentle with is my sister. Probably this is where she got the idea.
There is nothing that drives me crazier than having my actions attributed to my friends. I have had most of my friends for many years and they're all a hell of a lot more patient and gentle than I ever was and I count them all as positive influences on my character. My dad also thought the remark was provoking.
It is worth admitting though that I am a lot more impatient with my parents than I am with everyone else. You know how it is: everything they say is coloured by the memory of years of similar remarks. It’s hard to listen without thinking in your head: well, this is typical of how she always…
I find it difficult to grant them the benefit of the doubt I grant other people, even though they are two of the sweetest and most loving parents alive, who bear with my childish moods with admirable composure. I will strive to do better. It’s hard to though, with my mother, who unfortunately is rather startlingly ignorant. Very smart but wildly uninformed about pretty much anything, having been wrapped up for her entire life in nothing but corrosion and the spiritual realm. I have to quell my irritation though. It’s not right.

OK, good daughtering, let’s go!

Day 2: The buckles

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 00:08:00 +0000

Yeah, I'm sticking with this painstaking transcription, even though clearly hardly any of the 82 permitted people read the last one. Well, it can just be a diary then.
I spent most of the morning with DNA, a man who is so profoundly strange and unusual that I should have felt no surprise when he announced that he has XXY syndrome (although actually he has none of the symptoms, I’m sure he would hasten to add). More Kuwait traditions followed: we went to the Avenues, ate at Johnny Rocket’s (I LOVE IT THERE) and said hello to a million friendly Philipinos. We were there for ages not doing much (also in keeping with the spirit of this fine land).
Some time later my dad and I went to freezing Kuwait city to look for belt buckles in the tailor supplies area. My dad is so infinitely sweet that I had just to mention that a coat buckle broke to set us immediately careering around looking for just the right set of buckles among flocks of raucous Kuwaiti women hustling small children about our knees and shrewd, multilingual Pakistani vendors.
Then we went laptop shopping for me, my dad having previously spent the whole day looking at different stores until he narrowed the search down to the best bargains in the best stores for me to then peruse. My dad is a complete life support system, way more than other dads appear to be, Middle Eastern or not. I mean, I am nearly 26 (you guys will be expected to give much support during that undoubtedly traumatic birthday) and am still not expected to get even the smallest thing done for myself while he is around. In fact, it has recently occurred to me that I have not once ever purchased a shawerma for myself within this jurisdiction. He’s always bringing me them. When I got home from the airport, I found that my dad had stocked the fridge full of all my favourite foods, which regrettably I do not have the appetite to eat. There was a sign on my bedroom door saying “Welcome Home” made with some ancient 90s application that my dad keeps on a CD for this express purpose. Two kinds of high speed internet were in situ. A Kuwaiti sim card with a hilariously easy number was immediately placed within my hands, as was a bunch of money, my protests brushed aside. Best of all, my dad had installed a showerhead the size of a dessert plate. I can walk around the bathtub and still be under its pleasing precipitation. I also like it very much when life echoes Seinfeld episodes. I wanted to take a picture of the showerhead next to my hand for comparison, but my dad took my camera to be fixed (and it took him a bunch of annoying trips too).
A few errands later he dropped me off at home to have dinner with my mother. I usually use this time to try to talk her out of Christianity and I set forth anew. She nodded in agreement at my salient points and went on about her business, pausing only to press upon me a poorly written evangelical book given the terrifying, and terrifyingly banal, title of “Liar, Liar: Pants on Fire”, by Cheryl Bohl. The idea behind the bestowal was to stop me using the words “idiot” and “stupid” to which my mom has long taken exception (if only she knew about my unstoppable flow of profanity which has infected even my boss); the learned author posits that the use of such words is the result of a "lying spirit". After ranting about its stupidity at a nearly comatose mother for a while, I browsed through the book more carefully, finding that pretty much everything nice had been deemed the result of a spirit of something bad. In fact, masturbation is actually having sex with a demon.
I have to agree with her about goatees, though. They mostly are the result of a perverse spirit.

Day 1 of my millionth vacation in Kuwait

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 22:07:00 +0000

Kuwait is a hole. A pervasive odour of restlessness and suppressed energy hangs over the whole place. You'd think that the mere lack of alcohol and clubs wouldn't be such a debilitating handicap for a country, but it certainly feels that way to me, even though I don't even really drink that heavily or go out dancing much.
My friend the Source, currently exiled here, asked when we met up what I wanted to do. I could not think of anything – I don’t do shisha anymore (Cairene pollution soon put paid to that) and even though Kuwait has pretty great food, I never have much of an appetite while I’m here. So we went to Starbucks. People actually do that here of an evening, meet their adult friends at an overpriced bad coffee chain. Seriously. The only reason I can see to meet people for just coffee is if you’re at work and can only take half an hour.
So we went to the one down the street. There we met a mutual friend, DNA, and we sat and mulled through what (of the things I never do) we could possibly partake in. Movies? Too censored. Pool? Lame. Finally we decided to go for a walk on the beach.
So we zoomed down the Gulf Road – everyone always zooms everywhere, like there’s somewhere they want to get – and got out somewhere and walked on the boardwalk (concrete walk?). We came upon three different jungle gyms – the nice kind, the expensive sort with good swings and tall slides and sturdy things to climb – and had tons fun playing with those, laying in the disc-like swing watching the cratered moon in its rust-coloured ring swathed in clouds. Industrious joggers swished past, the women in flashy track suits and securely tethered hijabs (or not), the men in dark sweats (or shorts and T-shirts if of the Caucasian race). An Indian dude in a parka and rollerblades careened straight at us through a laughing crowd of Philipinos.
We eventually arrived at our destination, the Scientific Centre, in order to watch an IMAX film. The last time I went to one I was 17. In Kuwait, of course. We examined the chart and found that we had to watch something called “Mummies”. I fail to see what is 3D-friendly about that shit, and also I’ve seen lots of the really pimp mummies in real life. We were contemplating this versus the later show, “Monsters of the Sea”, when the guys of course got hungry and off we went to one of the dozens of fast food joints on the Gulf Road. Nearest was the Scientific Centre food court, where sulky bored Kuwaitis were eating and a subdued children’s party was going on. The guys ordered something from Burger King called “burger buddies”, which consists of six tiny burgers joined together in the manner of a six-pack of beer. Hah. I don’t really get having six fused together tiny burgers for your friends, as each of you can get a nice regular sized one with lettuce and tomato and all that. While they did that I looked around and spotted the husband of a close high school friend of mine, a German dude who was all angry and resentful when he first had to move to the highly un-German place that is Kuwait but now seems to have subsided into sober apathy. My friend, highly pregnant with her second child, walked up and we had a good chat. The first thing she asked me was how come I wasn’t eating – was I on a diet? Lebanese people can be depended on, delightfully, to focus their first question on your appearance, followed closely by a question about their own. We had a great chat and I’m going to call them, but I basically walked away feeling truly thankful that I am single, childless and not living in Kuwait. This impression was at least partly created by the birthday boy, over whose wheelie chair thing I had to actually leap, as he hadn’t yet learned to avoid such piffling obstacles as legs. I think I may have protectively cradled my unplumbed womb involuntarily.
I confided the above to my companions, one of whom does have offspring. He mused for a while on the terrifying permanency of bearing fruit, and how he feels sorry for his parents for still having to deal with his bullshit at the age of 32. Yikes. Yay unused uterus!
By this point we’d lost interest in the IMAX so we zoomed back to DNA’s place, where we watched the tail end of several bad movies as DNA marveled at the sheer quantity of how much the Source and I can talk, and in what detail, about matters that are in no way our business (I was bringing him up to date on every single thing that had happened to every one of our mutual friends since his last visit). We played Boggle. Of course, I don’t regard playing word games in any jaded I-need-a-drink light because I’m a word dork.
And then, of course, my dad called on the pretext of asking if I needed a ride home (STILL don’t drive) but really probably to check where I was, who with, and when I was coming home. Suspecting this I lit into the poor man very rudely, when I should have remembered that he’s been being less patriarchal of late and has been super sweet since I got here – he really is a great dad. I had to call back and apologize.
And that, my friends, is a Kuwait evening. People bitching about how there’s nothing to do, and then not doing much. I know it didn’t sound like it, but I had fun.

In Kuwait

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 21:38:00 +0000

It's as surreal as ever. But in the course of our usual long-ass arrival chat my mom casually remarked that she had in fact read this blog, and ought I not to consider being less explicit on here? This is disaster. I'm making this thing private for good this time! And after I was going to blog prolifically about this trip too.

Fun fact: the flight attendant was named Piyaporn. Yes.

It's not that I haven't the time to blog...

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 15:43:00 +0000

...it's just that I have been wondering, for several months now, why on earth anyone would want to read this thing. I've been thinking about writing a lot (oh how navel-gazy) and have come to the conclusion that neither now or ever will I have anything worth saying, any actual knowledge or information, or even a stylish way of saying nothing (also a good and marketable skill). I’m not fishing for compliments here…I really feel as though I struggle for words, flounder even to express things that are clear in my head. Therefore, I ought not to be blogging.
The initial idea behind this blog, however, was never to inform: it was that the content should be humorous. Whether or not I succeeded, I rarely find anything these days to be so funny that it needs to be reproduced for complete strangers. I don’t do much, even less than I used to, and really, does anyone need to hear about the doings of a bunch of 20-somethings in Cairo? So snoozy. Nothing unique about it. I mean, I was thinking about blogging about how bummed out I am that my friends are all leaving Egypt and making some ill-informed odiously pretentious reflection on how inevitable it is, how typical and traditional, the economy, identity issues and all that shit but how impossibly maudlin, right? And, after all, this blog isn’t exactly anonymous anymore so there are vast quantities of scandalous things that I can’t possibly report, even about my own life. It’s a real shame, there’s been some good shit.

Apart from that, I got nothing. The thoughts just die in a puddle of lameness.

Call me irresponsible

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 13:38:00 +0000

This month, I quit my respectable job as a corporate lawyer, bidding good bye to swivel chairs, bonuses in dollars, and hateful high heels, to work at a magazine where all the chairs are tall and fuzzy and only have one arm, and the toilet is on its own throne-like platform. Instead of hearing “sabah el kheir ya ostaza!” which I prodigiously enjoyed, I now hear “ciao, bella!” more times a day than anyone ever needs to outside of Italy’s more touristy areas. Stressful though the transition between two such different fields (one of which I know nothing about) has been, I’m having a great – if unusually invigorating – time so far, even though I’ve always loved formal hierarchies and established systems, and hated flying by the seat of my pants (although I love the idea of a girl’s trousered butt whizzing through the air, mysteriously airborne). It pleases me to find that I can work without a net (so far), much as the thought makes my palms sweat.

Tired – and mixed – metaphors aside, I’ve learned some things about myself, and the field of media, over the past month: the first of these is that a person can spend several days thinking about the punctuation of pull quotes, and feverishly debating the continued applicability of the m-dash. Well, possibly not any person. Other tender moments of self-awareness include the astonishing revelation that I can – pending the review of you, my peers – interview celebrities at 1 am on a weekend; that I have stress dreams, one of which inexplicably featured a large pink dildo being tossed through the air like an American football; that I am even more tactless than previously believed; and that chairs are more important than I would have thought possible. Also, I learned that I don’t know shit.

Other more general revelations include that shiny people are nicer than you might expect, and more interesting too; that fellating creative individuals is necessary, a professional technique which has already been inculcated in me; that people in media are supremely interested in analyzing their personalities as well as those of other people; and that a good giggle is an indispensable networking tool, as is leaning forward attentively.

Nevertheless it can’t be denied that “lawyer” sounds way cooler than “editor” or “journalist”. It sounds like you know specialized things, and are a member of a Profession. It’s a shame practicing corporate law – the only form of practice available in Egypt to someone with my Arabic skills – turned out to be such an epic snoozefest, something my classmates are uniformly realizing all over the globe.

Leaving a stable, well paid job, however, could not be entirely expected to meet with parental favour. Neither of them has ever contemplated the possibility of enjoying their employment. However, my mother being very, very strange, she met my news with, “that’s great!” and when I had stated my reasons for hating my job, with “those are very good reasons.” This was followed immediately by “Any news about marriage?”

My father, meanwhile, pretended that he trusted my decision since I had, he said, grown up. Nevertheless, in every subsequent phone call I would be treated to, “Are you still leaving that good job?” in a tone that made clear that he hoped that was a tasteless joke on my part. I have noted that in the past all unpalatable confessions have been treated like a temporary lapse of sanity and an implied announcement of my repentance of the activity in question. A few years ago, I imprudently decided to break the Sacred Vow of the Double Life, maintained for centuries between Egyptian children and their parents, and mentioned to them that I smoked shisha. This was met with predictable distress by my mother, who earnestly warned me against addiction, even though at the time I lived in Canada, where obtaining shisha involved two frozen bus rides and miles of tramping through snow. I pointed this out and it was disregarded as mere practicality, interfering with the moral issue at hand. My father, meanwhile, spoke wisely to my mother about my adulthood. Fast forward to four years later: “Someone told me they saw a picture of you on Facebook smoking shisha,” my dad said with what I suppose he thought was slyness.

“Yes,” I said.

“I thought you said you were going to stop!” he said, abandoning his cool.

“No,” I said. “I expressly said that I planned to continue.”

“I thought that since you admitted it, it meant it was over!”

“No,” I maintained. “I am going to smoke shisha.”

I did quit smoking shisha, a year or so later, because the pollution had cooked my lungs. I always claim that I haven’t, though, when they ask. I feel like I’m keeping them on their toes.

So I patiently informed my dad, several times, that I had quit, but comforted him with the knowledge that the law firm had promised to take me back if I wanted – even though I would never go back there. I still feel a bit irresponsible, but everyone (even former colleagues) assures me that I’m going to be a lot happier, and I believe them.

Originally published in Alter Ego Magazine, October 2008.

Running through the desert...

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Sat, 15 Nov 2008 14:23:00 +0000

...well, walking, but running sounded better. A bit dated, but read it here, and continued here.
I will go back to blogging here though. The Croc now want me to write reviews, which won't really cover my love for telling what I think are funny tales, and for attention.

I don't really have the time to blog here anymore...

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 10:57:00 +0000

but this post is mildly funny.

Also I'm shamelessly going to recycle things I wrote in the past. Didn't make all that much sense because after all I wrote it in the grip of law school brain drain, but still applicable.

When can I withdraw from adulthood?
What I’ve realized recently is that being an adult blows. I thought it was going to rock, and it has to a certain extent, but the blowing is gale-force at times. Has it occurred to you that when something both blows AND sucks, it’s bad? I guess when it sort of hangs there it’s OK. Not what I was led to believe.
Getting back to less salacious subjects. No one said how much time and money being an adult was going to take. They probably did say, but I assumed that I would have the time and money to do it, but I don’t (see last week’s editorial for why). In the past month I have been locked in battle with various forces trying to get our new apartment into shape. The landlord, primarily. When we moved in our kitchen cupboards had no handles, the drains in our sink and bathtub were clogged, two doors were unpainted, we only had one door key, the two sliding doors were broken, and we had no light fixtures or towel racks. Our heat doesn’t work. That’s the price you pay for living in the ghetto right? We tried to move out but we had missed the small print that said that apparently having your application accepted amounted to signing a lease. So we’re stuck for a year.
We began a war of attrition with the landlord. We submerged him with notes. We befriended and flirted with supers (luckily between us we have all superintendent ethnicities covered so we could form bonds). My roommate’s mother flew in from Edmonton to lend credence to our claims. There was mention of legal action, of course. Some of the stuff has been fixed but there’s still a lot of shouting to do.
And then there was Rogers AT & T. Apparently having no significant competition means that they can offer the shittiest service in the world. Yes, Nepalese villages have better service. Brothels. African jails. Bullying works in these places, and they never put you on hold. I went to sign up for internet, phone and the like, and they said the earliest time they could come round to install it was in three weeks. Each thing was to be installed at a separate time. I nearly passed out at the store.
So we read a lot of books. Even when the stuff was installed, it kept breaking down. When I remarked to the guy who came to set up the cable TV that their service was shitty, he said “Yes, it’s crap.” He had some good painting insight, too. Finally, a month and a half later, we have all the communication media in place. But we have more wiring strung around than any spy headquarters. I’d like to compare our setup with CSIS.
The furniture. We have become IKEA’s best customers. I might as well note that in this country an SUV is pretty much a necessity. Getting stuff delivered is a hassle and expense of massive proportions, attended by startling displays of idiocy. Back home, you can get exotic animals delivered to you while you stand by the side of a desert road. Here, they need a buzzer code. No matter how many times you insist that you can open the door using, God forbid, your own hand, they insist on having a buzzer. And when you give it to them they can’t use it. And when you try to call them back they divert you to their “call centre” in New Brunswick where no one knows anything about the details of the situation. At least there, they’re way too polite to yell back when you yell at them. That was nice.
Putting the stuff together was another thing. Up till now, my dad has handled all handyman duties. Apparently, three people plus numerous phone consults cannot attempt to do the work of a qualified engineer. And obviously since everyone I know is from law school no one has any DIY acumen, or indeed any red blood. I still had a lot of parts left over. And now all my muscles hurt from the unaccustomed effort of actually using them.
Seriously, though. Is there anyone who will volunteer to be my parent?

First published in the Obiter Dicta, October 2005. 3 years, and being an adult still stinks. Renting here actually sucks considerably more than that Toronto apartment ever did. The communication services are better here though.

Go over there again

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 21:11:00 +0000

More food.

A little bolder

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 13:13:00 +0000

How to avoid Ramadan .
And now!
A cartoon about the unfortunate post:
Courtesy of the Daily News Egypt, by Tarek Shahin. Sorry about the inside joke in there...but I love it!

The Alternative

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Tue, 09 Sep 2008 09:31:00 +0000

I ran into my favourite partner in the hallway at work the other day and he said, “Is this sad news I hear true? You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” I said.

“But why?”

I leaned forward confidentially. “I hate corporate law. Mish howa da elly ana 3ayza a3mello.”

“But I don’t quite understand what you’re going to go and do,” he continued.

“I took a job as the editor of a magazine,” I explained. “You should write for it!”

“Which one?”

“It’s called Alter Ego.”

He brightened perceptibly, and I smiled, assuming that he knew of it.

“You know, alter ego is a concept in private international law. It’s the application of something something private parties.”

“Maybe you could write about that! I know we are interested in such things…” I trailed off.

He shook my hand. “When are you leaving?”

“End of the month.”

“Ah lessa…tab haselem 3aleiki sa3etha ba2a.”

Following the dream. And while it is true that following said dream (one of my dreams) will involve freelancing and translating to keep sushi on the table, I’m super excited about it. It’s going to be awesome. You better all read the magazine. And write for it, if you like to/can write.

More crocing

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 08:23:00 +0000

Awesome food.

A litte late in the game...

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 18:47:00 +0000

...but this video really is adorable. I habitually run into some of these guys and they flirt with me and my friends politely. One of the dudes in this clip is Medical Fetus! And the Egyptian Boy in question is one of the gallant, hand-kissing friends.

Editor positions at Alter Ego

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 08:39:00 +0000

Alter Ego Magazine is a society, culture and arts magazine looking for editors who are willing to work long hours, under challenging conditions.

If you feel you can take the pressure, travel on short notice, come up with ideas in less than 30 seconds, and write with flair and the rudiments of grammar, then this may be your dream job. Writing samples will also be required.

To schedule an interview please contact Sophie Delaval at the following number: 0108238265

Seriously, you should do this.

The Office

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 13:13:00 +0000

Colleague: (accusingly) So, what's going on with your eyebrows?
Me: (smoothing them down) Oh. Yeah. They're not so bad. I was going to go get them done tomorrow.
Colleague: You mean we have to put up with them looking like that for another 24 hours?
Me: Yes! It's biweekly!
Colleague: Biweekly! Eyebrows need semi-daily maintenance!
Me: Fuck that!
Colleague: I mean at home.
Me: I DO groom them semi-daily! I can also teach you how to thread off your mustache.
Colleague: No, thank you.

I am really growing quite alarmed...something is going on with this hair growth! Last time I was on my way to the salon, I SWEAR I felt the breeze ruffle my arm hair. Ruffly arm hair two weeks after having it ripped out from the root! I made this observation to the hair removal woman at the salon and she obligingly laughed.
Luckily most of my friends aren't as rude as said colleague. She did take my lecture on eye make up with equanimity though, especially for a boss.
Or -
This whole conversation could have only struck me as funny because I caught a cold last night from being at a laughable sweaty Queen tribute concert. AC my ass, and it's not anyone who can play Bohemian Rhapsody, my friends. I'll review that when I feel a bit better.

Croc-ing

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 15:41:00 +0000

The kind people at the Croc have actually agreed to let me write some blather on their site...and for money too! So I suggest you turn here for my debut post, if you've developed a taste for claptrap.

Still not the Italy post

noreply@blogger.com (Forsoothsayer) — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 13:49:00 +0000

Texas Miss tries to plug in my laptop.

Me: No, it’s not in. Is it in yet?

Texas Miss: I’m holding it in!

Me: You have to jiggle it.

Texas Miss: I am jiggling it.

Xi: That whole conversation was FULL of “That’s what she said”s.

Totally not on purpose. We are however glad that Xi has bought into “That’s what she said!” which we love. Texas Miss herself has generously signed up for all of my pastimes, cooking attempts, friends, and TV shows. Best arrangement ever.

Especially with Xi: he is a friend of mine who has been crashing at our place for a while for family reasons. He has proved highly useful: for example, he has taken charge of all ambooba related issues. Yes, I rent the only apartment in Zamalek without natural gas installed. This basically involves a desperate attempt to flag down the guy who sells gas canisters as he clangs by on his bicycle. Technically, the bawab is supposed to do this but he prefers to lie and say the guy hasn’t been by on the rare occasions when he does come by; or, he promises me that he will get one the next day when he clearly has no guarantee the dude will come by.

Xi solved our gas crisis, which manifested itself in countless suddenly cold showers and ruined dinner parties. He located the ambooba guy and got his number and then he got the bawab’s number and is now in charge of changing them when they run out. He also taught Texas Miss how to.

Xi is, so far, the only supporter of my desire to kill the two cats that hang around my door and eat the trash and pee everywhere and generally make a nuisance of themselves. If I leave the door open for a second they try to come in. Their names are Bondo2 (after a similar looking cat my uncle used to have) and Tumor Cat (because she has a tumour the size of a tennis ball. We thought she was pregnant at first but we don’t know if it is male or female and also, no kittens have materialized, ever, and the belly has been the same size for the past year or so.) Many of my friends have indicated that should I poison them, as I have a raging desire to do, they would stop speaking to me. This is like the time I read that the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals was founded SIXTY YEARS before the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to CHILDREN. British people are so weird with their animal stuff. Don’t they know they should focus their efforts on the much more horrendous cruelty to members of their own species? After all we weren’t born with built in defence tools like most animals are! Besides, I would make sure to use a fast-acting poison, OK? They won’t care once they’re dead. I don’t see why I should have to put up with having the hall smell like pee and trash being spread everywhere. Don’t tell me we should put the lid of the trash can on…this is Egypt here!